The Sword of Revenge (18 page)

But Aquila saw the smoke of the burning huts on the horizon, looked into the glazed eyes of the men who had now been herded into the wooded compounds, watched as they worked, chained together, saw the vultures in the sky, before they swooped to feed on the bodies of those women and children who had died on the march. He had stood
beside Flaccus on the day that those unfortunate men, who dared to protest at their treatment, with precious few tools to dent the solid rock, started on the first of the new irrigation schemes. He knew the inducements they had been offered were a lie; there would be no easy life after the punishment was served. Aquila had been with Flaccus as he drew the plans for the next natural aqueduct. And if they were not broken on that, they would be returned to the land, to ploughing and planting, just as soon as this channel through the hills was complete.

He ate with the mercenaries and listened to their stories, happy to be treated as an equal while they related the more salacious incidents. He was part of the band, accepted since the death of Toger as one of them, and he was growing up, turning from a boy into a man. Aquila was, at last, part of a family again.

‘Time you dipped your wick, boy,’ said Dedon, a remark which the others greeted with a small amount of ribald comment, accompanied by whistling and cheering. Aquila turned back quickly to look at the table, Dedon having observed his eyes locked on to the swaying hips of Phoebe, the youngest of the slave girls. The hut had a dozen such women, who acted as cooks, maids and concubines. Some, like the object of his attentions, were resigned to their fate, accepting the attention
of the mercenaries rather than face the alternative; others had taken to it as if born to the life. All ate better than the other female slaves and if the work was unpleasant, it was less arduous than shifting dust and rocks.

They were sitting in the hut, at a long wooden table strewn with the remains of their supper. Aquila, determined to keep up with his new-found friends in the article of wine, was slightly drunk. They had the hard heads of grown men accustomed to drink; he was still a youth, not yet old enough to don his manly gown, so he treated everyone at the table to a knowing look, meant to convince them that the suggestion was way too late.

‘You’ve got a full bush of hair on your balls now,’ added Charro with an exaggerated wink. Then he looked at his mates and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve been slipping it to one of the girls when we’re not about.’

Aquila leered at him to confirm the truth of the statement, touching the side of his nose with a slow finger at the chorus of enquiries that followed. Dedon responded, his voice jocular. ‘You say he got hair, Charro. How’d you know that? You been having a peek while he washes?’

‘He don’t just wash himself, brother. That eagle round his neck ain’t the only thing he plays with.’

Dedon pretended to be shocked. ‘Is that right! Found a use for his right hand has he?’

Aquila blushed furiously as they all laughed, making gestures with their own hands to illustrate their meaning. ‘I say we should have a look and see what he’s got.’

The others roared their approval. Aquila was on his feet quickly, but the hands of the two men on either side had already taken hold. Vainly, he struggled to get free as more hands grabbed at him as the rest of the band gathered round. A couple of the men took his legs and he felt himself lifted in the air. They laid him, still squirming as hard as he could, on the table, scattering the plates and goblets. He felt the hands at his small clothes and sought to turn as they were torn off, heard the whoops of joy and the ribald remarks, keeping his eyes tightly closed while he was minutely examined. Rough hands flicked at his private parts, with many a reference to size and function.

‘Let’s set him to a woman,’ whooped Dedon.

Roars greeted this. They had his smock off before he was lifted into the air again. The men carried him bodily to one of the rooms at the end, calling out to all the girls to witness what was happening, and they crowded round for a view of this novel event. Only Phoebe stood back, unwilling to participate.

‘Who’s it to be?’ Dedon leered, his finger pointing at those most eager to see. ‘Come girls, off with your shifts and let our hero have a look.’

Two of the girls threw off their clothes and stood naked, ready for inspection. His captors dropped him to the ground, still holding his arms tightly, and made him face the pair, the roars that greeted the beginning of his erection louder than any that had gone before. He tried, but he could not help himself, having spent a good deal of time fantasising about the very act he was being encouraged to perform.

Dedon pointed at his groin. ‘You’re in for some pleasure girls by the look of that, but we still have to decide who’s going to be lucky.’

They pushed him forward until he was standing by the first of the girls, a rather plump creature with huge breasts. Dedon had appointed himself judge, and he crouched down to see the effect this was having on the boy. ‘By the Gods, lads, it’s twitching. Aquila’s prick has a life of its own.’

He was presented to the next girl, older than the rest, who waggled her hips a little to entice him. Aquila had that sensation in his groin, that mixture of pleasure and pain, and it was becoming unbearable. He shut his eyes and tried to think of something else, an act which Dedon misinterpreted.

‘No. This one’s no good.’ The mercenary raised his head to pick out a third candidate and almost immediately his eyes lit on Phoebe, standing well away from the crowd. ‘We’ve been going about this the wrong way, lads. I started all this ’cause our
young cock-sparrow has his eyes on a certain swaying arse.’

Phoebe must have known what was coming, for she shrank back against the wall. That only encouraged Dedon, who jumped across the room to grab her. He hauled the girl close and growled in her ear. ‘You’re lucky you’re still here, the way you carry on. Don’t think I haven’t seen you, making yourself scarce at night. Time you earned your fuckin’ keep.’

He started to laugh, the pun being unintentional, then spun round and dragged her forward, repeating his remark to universal acclaim. ‘This is the one for Aquila. He’ll gain an inch, once he catches sight of Phoebe without her shift.’

The women, who knew which side to take for their own well-being, helped Dedon to pull off Phoebe’s clothing. Aquila was shuffled towards her and he knew, even with his eyes still shut, that he was before the slimmest as well as the youngest of the slave girls, a Macedonian about his own height. Dedon was right. It was her hips he had been watching, moving enticingly under her woollen dress, and, to him, part of the attraction was her reluctance to indulge the others. He had had his eye on her for weeks, trying to pluck up the courage to get her alone, his confidence alternately boosted and crushed by the enquiring looks she gave him.

‘Oooh!’ He felt himself jerk spasmodically as her
cool hand brushed against him. He opened his eyes. She was standing very close, deliberately not looking at him, her eyes full of tears. Aquila looked down, to see that Dedon had hold of her wrist, and was pushing her hand, so that it rubbed gently against him. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask the crowd to stop, but Dedon spoke first.

‘We best get them to it, lads,’ cried Dedon, mistaking the sad look in the boy’s eyes. ‘I don’t think our novice can hang on much longer.’

Aquila felt himself lifted bodily once more. Phoebe allowed herself to be led, unresisting, to the straw pallet on the floor. The women laid her down, forcing open her arms and legs to welcome him, as his bearers lowered Aquila into position. Dedon took hold of his gold charm, pushing it out of the way, as he whispered in Phoebe’s ear.

‘You’ve got two choices, girl. Either you see to the boy, an’ show willing, or I’ll wrap a rope around your neck and string you up from the nearest tree.’

‘No, Dedon,’ Aquila gasped. ‘I don’t want this.’

The mercenary spun his head, to look Aquila in the eye. ‘Nonsense, boy. Don’t be soft.’

‘He ain’t soft, an’ that’s for certain,’ said Charro, with a whoop of glee.

Dedon grinned at him. ‘Only goes to prove, friend, that a standing prick ain’t got no conscience.’

He felt their arms on his back, pushing him. They’d taken hold of her legs, which were now encircling his thighs. Female hands put him inside her. Phoebe, encouraged by Dedon’s threats, started to move against him. That feeling, which he fought to suppress, rose quickly; too quickly. His naked buttocks, accompanied by loud cheers, jerked furiously as he came in a woman for the first time, his head buried in the crook of her neck, and he heard the sob in her throat as he stopped moving.

Dedon’s voice seemed very distant. ‘I say we should leave them alone, lads. Then perhaps young Aquila can give Phoebe a real seeing to.’

There was much giggling as they all filed out of the room. Aquila lifted his head and turned hers so that he could look the girl in the eye. She gave him a sad smile then turned away again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.

That made her turn back, searching his eyes to see if he was sincere. Her hand reached out to feel the golden eagle that hung between them. The two youngsters stared at each other for what seemed an age. Then Phoebe’s other hand came up to the back of his neck and she pulled him down, kissing him full on the lips. The way he subsequently took the Macedonian girl as his own personal concubine caused no resentment, nor did she complain again. Aquila was far from sure if she genuinely liked him, or was merely happy to serve the needs of a young
and persistent lover, rather than go back to what she had put up with before, but over the days and weeks he came to realise it was more than just acceptance. Phoebe lost the hunted look she had worn before, not that she got much peace. He spent every free moment in her arms, trying to talk to her between bouts of lovemaking, difficult since he had no Greek and she only had enough Latin to serve as a slave. She learnt words from him, but he garnered more from her, starting with her name, which meant ‘bright lights’. In time they could hold stilted conversations enough to explain how they came to be here in Sicily.

The mercenaries, having supervised his initiation, now seemed to adopt him fully. When not riding the farm with Flaccus, or locked in Phoebe’s arms, they took upon themselves the job of teaching him the arts of fighting; how to ride bareback and fight off a horse, saddled or not. Dedon was a trident and net man, Charro a master with the short sword. Spear throwing he knew, but the others taught him to wrestle, to fight with staves, how to kill with the boss of a shield, the way to use a knife or a rope at close quarters and how to fire off an arrow from a proper bow, and they were not gentle, which led to many a bruise and more than one cut. Aquila never complained, never let them see if he was hurt. Phoebe dressed his wounds, and rubbed oil into the tired and burgeoning muscles, never failing to finger
his pendant, whispering words in Greek as she praised her eagle.

Over the months Aquila grew in strength and speed so that the contests were no longer wholly one-sided. He fought well and never whined when he was painfully bested and was thus popular amongst the men. Because his manner was less rough than his fellows, and given his single-minded attachment to Phoebe, he was popular with the women as well. Hard-hearted Flaccus, obsessed with his need to increase the yield, even consented to the holding of a ceremony, with special food and some of his own wine, to celebrate the March day following the Feast of Lupercalia, when Aquila donned his manly gown. All the concubines helped in the preparation, weaving as well as cooking. Some of them cried as he stepped forward, in a new smock, his red-gold hair carefully combed and dressed, the eagle flashing on his tanned chest, no longer a boy, but a Roman citizen and a man.

There was never a month without trouble and much as Flaccus hated the waste he was forced to sanction the occasional hanging. Flogging was a daily occurrence as the men were driven at dawn into the fields to work, overseen by other slaves whom the mercenaries had recruited. They themselves acted as a sort of mobile reserve, available to impose an even harsher regime if the
trouble became serious. Flaccus spent his time between his two farms, threatening and cajoling, with many a lying promise, all to increase the land under cultivation. It was hardly surprising that any slaves who caught their guards unawares, and who had the strength, did their very best to escape from such a regime but that was happening all over the island. More worrying was the fact that these escapees had only one way to feed themselves, and that was to steal from the likes of Didius Flaccus.

The first harvest had shown a drop in yield. Even though Flaccus had anticipated this, since it was caused by his restructuring, he manufactured a towering rage, tongue-lashing his men as layabouts and threatening to cut their pay. The slaves paid for this, of course; they were driven to work even harder by an increase in flogging, plus a couple of exemplary crucifixions. This was not confined to men either; women and children suffered just as much and the young bodyguard was no longer shielded from it. As he rode from place to place, just behind his leader, Aquila could contrast the atmosphere now with that which had existed when they had arrived. Not even a ghost of a smile anywhere, just hardship and pain. Those with some spirit, who had avoided death or serious injury and had not run away to the hills, were worst off, breaking rocks in the unyielding hills. The women dug trenches in the softer ground while their
children removed the earth to build embankments on the lower slopes. As he rode by, the children, some of them approaching his own age, would look up, their eyes full of envy for the golden youth with his horse, his weapons, his healthy glowing skin and his full belly.

The spring ploughing was over, the fields planted. For the slaves it was normally a period of comparative rest. Not now. Some were kept to water the fields, the rest put to work increasing the irrigation, working up on the hillsides which had, until then, remained uncultivated. They cursed the earth, which was nearly as hard as their grim and ruthless master. Flaccus rarely slept and never relaxed, refused the services of slave girls and worried constantly, watching the stalks of wheat as they grew. He ranted and raved throughout the harvest, cursing the slightest waste. Only when he began to see some of his labours bearing fruit did he consent to spend some time away from his duties. It was no holiday; Flaccus was called to discuss joint measures against banditry with the other men overseeing the Sicilian farms. There had been an upsurge in attacks as increasing numbers of slaves went missing and coordinated action was needed to root these villains out of their mountain retreats.